


The unkindness as seen by light of day

by Kasan_Soulblade



Series: Fragments and what we spy by them [1]
Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: AU, An attempt to break the cycles with min bloodshed, Bottas a papa wolf, Breaking up the Regeneration with unconventual means, Gen, Genis is a brat, Innocent but smart Colette, Kratos is more cold than canon, Pagan Kratos, Raine's still crazy and protective, Renegade perspective, Sylvarant Emphasis, Yuan is both tramatized and tramatizing, emphasis on the politics/policies of Sylvarant, its quite a balance, religious dispute, skit chapters will be marked, striving for utopia with humane means, unconventual families
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-01-05 03:03:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasan_Soulblade/pseuds/Kasan_Soulblade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’d fallen apart before it started.</p><p>Saved by a man who was wrong yet right such was how one’s heroes very existence was crossed out.</p><p>The very stars quaked, their prophecy of hope extinguished for a story, this story, without it’s hero was simply a tragedy in all but name.</p><p>To this the Angels descended a world where all went as expected.  They brought order, enforcing pattern and all that it entailed, never mind the route was a down ward spiral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A TOS what-if/AU, salvaged from a series of old folders. It does tie heavily with an older piece I’ve published elsewhere that I may or may not transfer here but I hope to make it approachable even for those who haven’t read the original rough draft background fic. Spoilers for the whole TOS story line, Renegade centric, some iffy ties to tos2, and some ties to the old/dated piece Shard of Regeneration, I’ve changed the writing style though, actually having a z skit theater to serve between chapters (and locations where they are meant to appear on the map etcetera) as well as titles and the like…
> 
> As this fic was actually meant to be made into a game with my rpg maker a lot of the notes for said game need a place to reside and since this site is more lenient than ff dot net I figured what can it hurt? If it does violate some obscure policy though someone message me please and I’ll take it down!

They thought this scrum war, surly.

Such was the absurdity of the armed and armored amongst a world that normally did without any type of conflict.

Oh there was violence in this place, in this world.  Such was the bulk of petty scuffles, flying fists, the no place, no time was without the desperate preying upon the despised.

Utopia this was not.

What it was was bright.  Between cloudless sky and sunlight and that which was being poured down by heaven… the skies were a flame, the luminance warring between cerulean and white.

Such were the marks of the divine by the faithful, to others…  To others it was many things.

While blade and blood and pseudo war began above upon temple steps below… well below there was another tale of sorts.

As a whole the lot was rather mundane.

Clad in villainous hues, they milled about the temple’s base and basked in the shade.  For them the grass that lapped up the temples stony base was a convenient place to set their feet, and for the more carefree…  Well those few took off helms and basked in a light and spoke of little things.

The seniors, more work minded then the youngling guards simply set to work with a few grumbles.  Peace treaty and weak monsters let them simply overlook such laggard motions of the children.  And they were that, the youngest a mere fifteen, the eldest a few hundred, but then age was relevant and maturity somewhat questionable when half the lot had pointed ears and bloodlines were mixed.

So, some allowances were made, and there might have been a few indulgent smiles for the younglings as their elders worked, but no one was inclined to focus on that over much.

“Eh, this lot’s not steady.”  Though helmeted as they all were (save the sluggards of course) the silver dome atop his head and its visor did much to hide the speakers face.  Not much for the hair, one grey ringlet poked out somewhat squashed by helms strap. “Yashin, get your lazy tail in gear and over here!”

One of said younglings, who was about to pull off his helm sighed, but then did come over here, any remarks about how tails (organic and none mechanical)  just didn’t have gears and how wrong was that.

To the expected, well it went ignored, save for one of those indulgent lip twitches.

 “Oh just shut up and get under here so I can set the brace right, Master’s brat!”

“Alright already,” so spoke the helmeted underling, ignoring jeers and playful “come backs” form the laziest who loved to spread their laggard ways when off the clock Yashin was up and well… not running.  But it was a respectable trot.  A small hop the boy quit grass for rocks and it was a small scree spreading scramble that got the long limbed “brat” to his elder’s side.  Youngling like elder was ever in monochrome, black was the color of the day, and really the color of every day.

“You can help prop up the mana readers. Lordship said he wanted readings and all and”

“And you don’t wanna risk getting squished by some odd fifty pounds of magiteck boxes to get those readings.”  Yashin drawled.  Then quieter, a mere whisper really, “You know, Dad did say that we should get the readings after the whole light show was over.”

“Residue readings are _so_ inaccurate.”  The senior officer pointed out.

“Whatever Sky, just admit it, you want to get to get real time readings of light and wind mana all at once without D- His Lordship’s predominant element giving you white noise and messing up the lot.”

Baring teeth, sharp and edged due to an impact with a wall long ago, the effect was akin to mini fangs actually, Sky smiled.  Unlike most of the intellectually stunted underlings Yash’ didn’t flinch, look down, or cringe.

And this was Sky’s reason number thirty eight he liked the boy.

”Maybe, maybe no-“

But then Sky was talking to air.  Breezily sidestepping his superior the boy was already on his knees at the lop-sided part.  Huffing about how the lab was so much better.  “Sooo much” actually, the kid was tinkering around with a half extended metal leg and twisting the thing this way and that.  The box couldn’t be tilted, but the extension wasn’t quite right and the grooves of the natural rock it’d been braced on were letting the troublesome mechanical limb slide off.

But then no one said rocks were smooth and perfect like flooring.

“Hey, Brandyn, Greg, get me some rocks would you?”  Half under the box, bracing it with his arms… and how’d he move so fast?  Enthusiastic little human.  Sky smirked though the kid couldn’t see it.  “I’ll get this fixed up for the old man then skunk you at our card game.”

“Old?”  Sky snorted, “Yeah right, I’m only two hundred, you brat.”

“How _was_ the Kharlan war?”  Drawled the legs… or rather the voice attached to them. 

“Four thousand years ago, you idiot.  Respect your superiors!”

”Ouch, jeeze Sky, really, that was super mature!”

Huffing the half elf kicked off some dust from his steel toed boot, smiling, and in a manner much befitting a squads leader, drawled.

“If you must know… it was peachy keen if you like conflict.”

Which, for all of them, was none of them.  Despite the dire colors and grim facades, and the mask that hid their features, few were armed. Pens were more common than swords, and the few crossbow men had taken down impromptu lunches more than people and liked it like that. Amongst the hunters, a mere handful, with Yash’ among the lot, few were really that adept act actually hunting.  Granted this was a training exercise, they were supposed to get better, and a lean belly had helped their skills along somewhat.  For those not pursuing foodstuffs, well the eldest of the half elves were spell casters, mostly healers more than anything else.  One thunder wizard was the groups most aggressive combatant, himself actually, and besides the occasional threat of sparking someone’s hair up he hadn’t had to do all that much.

Which was nice, really it was.

 They’d skulked from base to dear old drear Iselia, went unseen and were glad for being unseen because being caught was the same as having to kill.

And really, two crossbow men, one guy with a whip issue, and a swordsman, they weren’t much for killing.

The killing group was upstairs, doing who knew what and none of them downstairs really wanted to know what so they weren’t the who who knew.

And it was better that way, really it was.

But that funny thing about combat was that what you expected wasn’t what you got, and what you wanted was never in anyone’s thought.

“Sir!” A flash of light, from above, not up high heavenly like, but from a good way up the hill.  He had enough time to see it, to recognize the panic in the soldier’s voice.  It was blue, the blue of light and ice mixing up wrong, descending, the whatever it was and its own private winter were on their way down.  A cold chill took his blood, his face paled.  Then, suddenly, it _was_ cold, his breath steamed even as he shivered at the things descent.

Scared, yes, they hadn’t expected something this bad, but he was a leader, and had enough brains in crisis to have earned that title.

Ripping the communicator stone from his belt, he clicked the button, opening communications back to home.  A home so far away in a place so different that the simple little things like trees and grass had been a point of poignant wonder for this lot of kids.

“Yashin, get out of there!  The rest of you, drop your weapons and scatter!”

Scrape of stone and out came the kid, no helm though, his riot of hair and violated a thousand and one protocols. Blue mostly, badly dyed with a sizable chunk of brown at the base attesting to it, the lot flapped about his ears, hiding their roundness and his one saving grace.

Pulling the boy up Sky pulled a knife from his pocket and did what he could, the cut was crude, but the flaps of hair were sliced off.

“Move it kid!”

Clearly having ones superior scream at you was enough to get you going, snarky banter with said superior previous notwithstanding.

A crash, the chill descended the bringer of the cold with it.

 _“Ish ya! Derris Fa Sith_!” 

One of the youngest, a full elf a mere thirty, just old enough to learn how to cast spit out the oath.  He’d been too busy dropping tools and scrambling to his feet and somehow lingered a little too long.  An abandoned mana signature reader was knocked down after him, a skip and tumble and the boy was all but crushed, or would have been.  The impact had merciful Origin triggered the relocate strapped to his belt, and with a flash of red light post impact and the kid was gone.

Speaking of kids Yashin was bellowing at some of the sluggards to run, to “just drop everything and run, damn it” the halfhearted scramble to save supplies was dropped at that.  Good thing Yashin was busy giving orders, and that their guest was distracted by the mad scatter.  Considering  Sky was murmuring words to coax the mana about him he was unaware of the arms about his waist guiding him aout. He was tugged as he cast and it wasn’t a run, but it was enough that _Derris fa Sith_ had to look.

It’s all that saved them.

Blade sheered through steel, some youngling had ducked behind a five rears work of mana processing art, and it was being ripped apart by sword and spite and merciful powers the kid had the sense to get away, the rush of red light and the snarled oath from the visiting angel told that tale.

“Span between and betwixt, release thy light, lightning!”

Fury added a bite of ozone to the air, twisting arcana he stilled, gestured, then the world came back to him.  Motion and flickering light died and there were two forms too still and the black clad, the light sheathed man-thing was staggering under the hit and hate.  Wings of crystal hue, all tinted with sky about the edges, they  sparked and shook. What rush of vindication Sky might of indulged turned bitter.

Simple facts, Two forms, unmoving, black clad, crimson pooled.

Then they were running, trying to dodge a realization that’d come anyway. 

The pressure about his waist resolved to Yashin’s arm and he went from begin guided to guiding.

“The temple, pull back to the temple, he doesn’t dare.  Not with the Chosen.”

The two forms, limp and unmoving at the temples’ base told a different story, but Yashin decided to try docility on size.  Truth be told, it looked awful, he looked awful, all wide eyes and pale with a hint of green about his lips.  Still he… they… managed.  Running, the thunder of wings as Death finally decided His prey they were left with nothing else save a route that paralleled the road and could only hope that the road didn’t run out.

Bushes slapped ankles and knees with bruising force.  They staggered about stone, and at their feet the thunder was traded for a rush of boot fall more frantic than their own.

“He’s gaining” Yashin yelped.  “And he’s pissed!”

“Vital data that, kid.”  Sky snarled, or rather tried.  The gasps took the bite out of his words.

“We’re not here to kill the Chosen you bastard!”  Yashin screamed, not that the approaching monster slowed; still it’d been worth a shot.  Speaking of shots Yashin had unslung his cross bow.  It was pre-loaded and with a turn went from cradling it to shooting.  The black blur banked away from the shot, then quit bushes and like, a scrape of sound up (impossibly up, so high up the trail it hurt to think about) told them that the… whatever that had been… decided that they weren’t all that important after all.

But by then thinking wasn’t on any of their minds.

Communication stone buzzing and set to ear Sky was screaming, “Team Red, this is Team Black, we’ve got _Derris Fa Sith_ sighted, and he’s out for blood, abandon mission, I repeat abandon.   We’ve dead, two dead, casualties, all personnel are ordered to pull out. Now!”

Bent over double, trying to recall what breathing without burning, Yashin closed his eyes.  Between gasps and pain there were wet tracks running down his face. The lot wasn’t sweat, and it wasn’t unexpected.

“Shit, shit… No response, Com’s dead for all I know.  Bloody Angelic Mana!”

To that expected Yashin groaned.  “…’hate stairs.”

“Hear you kid, up to another run?”

No, so answered the sob, still Yashin was up, and if his face was twitching something fierce from suppressing a breakdown… well that was expected too.  They weren’t killers.  People in their division… they just _didn’t_.

“Try my Com, while we go.”  Yashin huffed.  Setting arrow in place and loading even as he walked Sky had the dubious pleasure of riffling through pockets until he got that little grey stone in hand.

The click said Yashin was at least armed, that made one of them.

Facts rattled in the commander’s head like disquiet ghosts, _his best spell... and nothing… and two bodies… HIS FAULT… and years of work  just gone… and sobs... and when had breathing hurt this much?_

And it looked like it was going to be one of _those_ missions.

Then, because they didn’t know and couldn’t leave before they did (because they were responsible, and duty bound , and so _so_ stupid, and father was going to kill him –the last said as a mantra against this madness-, and his father was going to kill the Commander because they shouldn’t do things like this –never mind that there was one hell of a maybe about them getting back home to get killed by the Commander, but Sky didn’t say a word to his ward) they were going up, to light, and a sky that burned without fire.


	2. Medias Res

Unkindness

Chapter 2

 

Dad would have called it “medias res” .  The literary device was older than… well Dad.

And considering Dad that said everything.

Head down, watching each step, juggling breathing and running and pain it went to say that Yashin wasn’t watching the world about him  The next step was hard enough.  In his defense Sky wasn’t either, dealing with Yashin’s lot and the feat of trying to spell cast.

Still that last rise they plowed into two gawkers and the four of them went down.

Place what comedy to the situation as you will.

Out of the crush the shortest was smartest squealing “Desians!” and trying to get away.  Not that it mattered; pronouncement and efforts went unnoticed by the crush in front.  Black met white, priest warriors fought trained killers and by the count of fallen robed persons it wasn’t the good guys coming out on top.  Perhaps delusional, the silver haired kid managed a follow up of “Desians, help help!”  before Sky managed to snap a hand over the kids face.  Following his commanders lead Yashin silenced the blonde haired girl before she could catch the little kid’s smarts and really scale up the shrieks.

A flash of red, top abouts was being pushed in their direction.  Push became shove, and the red head was quit of the scrum all without his permission if the unpriestly exhalation of profanity he let out meant anything. 

“Son of a…”  Broken staff in hand, one half per hand, the man whirled about.  Red, yes, the hair was red, the face pale, and between color and contrast though it seemed his head was aflame.

The image wasn’t helped along when his eyes all but caught fire when noticed the children and their captors.

“Desian bastards! Let Catling and Gen’ go!  Now!”

“You and what army inferior being?”  Sky drawled, a waved hand set starlets of lavender into existence about his fingers.  “Where’s the Chosen?”

Under the cover of the obvious threat Yashin pulled his com out of the pocket.  No way he was screaming out “Hey we got attacked by the angel of death” into that fight.  Not only was there no guarantees he’d be heard, but it was likely that they priests would rally under such news.  Mercy of mercy it was working, which meant no angels about, which was the best news all day.  Clicking it on, he pressed the button to give an automated message that’d bear his news of mission failure with divine intervention as cause.

He knew when the message was received, Botta’s swearing swelled over the sounds of fighting and dying.

“Abandon mission.  I repeat, all personnel pull ba-“

The rustle of some innocent bush being pushed aside heralded Deaths appearance.  Wings tucked  away, looking almost part of the team he’d attacked in his all black attire (sans the cape, only commanders could accessorize so grandiosely) Death dropped in.  Blade slashing, he took down one Desian, than another, shoving some spindly priest out of his way he raced into the fray.

Or rather the flight.

Red light blurred the edges of the attacking Desians as they activated evacuation charms.  Priests wielded staff and club against the outlines of their assailants that were fading, faded, gone. 

In that artificial lull, where the cruelest barked out curses at the fading and the fury died down enough that the priests realized that they couldn’t do anything but _might_ be able to get hurt there came a break in the ranks.

It was just enough for the Desian’s leader to be seen.  Cruel humor in full play the man was dressed in white.  Simple unadorned robes that took something from the cut of a toga about the edges.  Deviating from the monochrome was the silver bracers on his arms, the dark brown of his eyes, and the red flush of working mana that was quickly stealing the man’s details.

Still there was enough to see the man’s pointed ears, his widening eyes, and the look of utter horror on his face as he finally saw the person who’d given him warning of Death’s coming.

Daring a bit -because when wasn’t he?- Yashin freed up a hand and twiddled his fingers in farewell.

“The Lord is going to kill him, then me, then you, when we get back.”  Sky hissed, wisely tightening his grip on _his_ hostage.  “Stop playing around Yash and…”

And under the gaze of everyone, under the pull of all that hate the Commander swallowed.  Words and half formed plan forsaken under fear.  The remaining priests were starting to shake off their shock and put stock to the facts.  These Desians weren’t glowing all red, which meant they weren’t going anywhere.

And if Death was grinning at them from behind the crush, well they moved just enough so that Yashin caught the smirk.  He might have shaken the girl a little in response, just to make that smile go away because he could.  Not that he’d admit it, after all human baiting was the epitome of hubris… and for him something of a self-defeating practice. 

Still the show of his “brutality” got the priests to stop their advance.

“So… umm… We’ve… ah got hostages… and” And they weren’t trained for this, not him or Sky.  Speaking of Sky…  “When’d I become the spokesperson for umm us?”

Glances were being shared, disbelief was riding the lot, a few might have smirked.  But both Desians were more than content to ignore the more amused of the lot.  With a sigh, sparks still snapping, Sky took the role of commander in hand.

“Give us the Chosen or we’ll-”

The jangle of bells contrasted wildly with the thud of a boomerang hitting helm.  The following thump of Sky passing out was sort of expected though.  Gapping, Yashin turned to the red head priest, and could have sworn he felt sun burn building under his uniform from the man’s regard.  Having neatly snapped up his boomerang he pointed it at the human Desian, the man’s boots jing-a-linging with each small movement.

“Let her go, right now, or you’ll be joining your pointy eared friend for a dirt nap.”

Creepiest thing, the man was smiling, even as he brandished his weapon.

“That… I might be able to… oh man no fair!”  What wasn’t fair was the fact that having been knocked out and landing just so the Commander’s emergency mana transport was kicking in. The lines of the man were turning red and blurring like a blushing mirage.  Freed the boy went to the bell booted priest and while the reunion was sorta touching the sheer exasperation of Sky getting a free ride out of this mess was beyond irritating.  “You’re using my prototype you jerk, and that’s not fair! I wanted to use it first!”

There might have been a snicker or two from the back, and really… what was the point?

“Alright, I surrender, just… take her and I’ll leave.  Deal?”

“No more Desian attacks?”

Heaving a sigh, Yashin considered the light up high, then let his regard skate down to those about him.  Let them think it prayerful that he’d seen the light.  Really… all he wanted to do was go back to the site and… and try to put right what he could before starting the long walk home.  The weariness of what he was going to have to do made his shoulders slump.

With a sigh he released his prisoner.  She hadn’t really been much of one.  No struggling or threats really had occurred and all in all he didn’t know why Desians just flocked at the idea of taking someone hostage.  It was horribly boring.  Give him his lab any day. He’d take basic generator maintenance over this lot any day, hands down.

“All yours.”  He shoved her at them.  And if the belled priest took too long to untangle himself from the little boy and the girl went down with a thump that wasn’t Yashin’s problem.

Or rather it wasn’t meant to become his problem.

The alarmed “Catling?” was followed by a murmur of “Chosen?” and that made Yashin stop, stop and turn and see that the red light that’d taken Sky and… and those it could was stealing the edges of this little girl.  A quick dip into his pockets told him what was obvious, he’d dropped the Evac. gem, and somehow this girl had gotten a hold of it.

One bad fall had triggered it, that’s all it had taken, one fall.

This girl who was the Chosen.  The Savior of the Church, and the enemy of Desian’s everywhere let out a squeak of shock then the light peaked and she was an outline, than less than one.  Just a memory really.

Rational rambled that he should be running, really running really fast.  But his feet had all but melded with the ground and he was so _tired_.  Between the legs of the priests, features obscured by the fold of flapping robes, Yashin spied a black clad form amongst the white.  He wondered if it was anyone he’d known.

And he wondered, at the burning of his eyes, of the blurring of his sight.

Still, as hate filled gazes flicked over him, and the voices rose in a rumble, he felt a world apart from reality. The red haired man was scrambling to where the girl had been and futilely began to seek where she wasn’t, and feeling the pressure of hostilities he folded.  Yashin slowly put his crossbow down, moving so the arrow would hit the ground if shot.  Once it was level with the ground he tossed it aside then followed suit.  Sinking to his knees, hands set to brace him, head down, he waited.

For blade, for hate to be acted upon, for what he wasn’t sure.  Eventually some decision was made and he was hauled up by a man wearing black, small mercies the man’s sword was sheathed sans peace knot, still he was hauled up by cold hands and his hands were quickly bound by rope.

Absently he tried to test the bounds.  More instince than anything.  Still intent wasn’t what mattered, the effort was noted, and eyes so dark a brown they might as well have been black twisted into slits under the force of a scowl.  There was a sense of motion that Yashin meant to turn towards, but impact stopped the effort and the young man slumped forward.  All sense leaving him.

And above, beyond it all, the lights of heaven gleamed.  The illumination twined cerulean with white, a fire without smoke, without spark, without blaze, yet still blindingly bright.


	3. Skits and game notes part one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So some game note. I figure I'd also use the skits to cover all the walking about and break up the monotony that marred the pacing of this pieces inspirational work Shards. Basically chapters like this will come post a big scene or to cover to walking/odd instances/ecetera. They'll be rare than real chapters, but part of the story regardless. Spoiler skits will be marked accordingly.
> 
> Tylor is the red head priest from chapter 2, the one with the boomerang.

As I stated in the intro I’m making this for a game via RPG maker and sometimes the game notes are going to appear.  Since I can make skits and titles (as accessories with the version I’ve got) there will be a place I put them down.

This is the first for the lot.

Title format

Character name

Title description

_Stats effected (+)(-)_

Yashin

(default) Grunt:  Master’s brat or not, you start somewhere and the bottom of the seniority ladder it more than justified all things considered. Allows you to equip bows.

_Strength (+), accuracy (+)_

Sky’ian FallenBlood

(default)  Civilian Commander:  You’ve earned some points leading civilians out of tight spot, thus leadership is yours.  Allows the one who has it equipped to use level 2 armor.

_Defense(+), TP(+)_

Colette Brunel:

(default) Chosen:  The chosen of Sylvarant, destined to lead the people to a better world via the Regeneration Ritual

 _Defense(+) TP(+)_.

Oh Catling…:  It’s almost holy, this power of yours to crash into anything and instigate the most insane shenanigans.  Just… try to be more careful, _please_.

_Defense(+) attack(+) accuracy (-)_

Genis Sage:

(default) Just a child:  Chosens friend or not, your just a child, don’t expect too much and enjoy what you’ve got.  Adulthood when it comes is forever after all.

_TP(+) Evasion (+)_

Tylor Aruu-Valen Sancrest: 

(Default) Martelian Priest: Member of the Order of Askanian wanderers, they spread holiness by taking pilgrimages and tending remote holy sites/shrines.

_Defense(+) Accuracy (+)_

Kratos Aurion

(default) wandering swordsman:  He lives by the blade and will die by it, such is the destiny of this path.

_Str(+) accuracy(+)_

 

 

**Skits part 1**

Once upon a time: 

(set to trigger when leaving the Iselia temple)

Tylor:  So…. You are what happens when a boy and his dog…

Kratos:  And I have a dog because?

Tylor:  Pet hairs, all over your leggings.  Black against white, it’s not too subtle.  Unless it’s one big white cat you’ve got?

Kratos:  Tch…

:Tylor:  _Soo_ you’re what happens when someone like that goes on a journey and stays out too long?

Kratos:  Your attempts at prying, Sir, are unwelcome.

Tylor:  Ty’… or Tylor, please…  Father Tylor if you must be formal.  _Soo_   (tips head)

Kratos:  (hand over face) Father, with all due respect, what I am and who I am is irrelevant.

Tylor:  Apologies.

(Post first battle, only Kratos and Tylor are playable characters at this point, Tylor is inflicted with temp slow status, this is to explain why)

Getting old:

Tylor:  You, kiddo, are getting too heavy for this!

Genis:  I can walk, it’s just a scrape and…

Tylor:  Absolutely not!  (huff, wheeze) …One of us is getting too old anyway…

Genis:  What?

Tylor:  Nothing.  Just worried about your sister, and Catling.

Genis:  Sis… they didn’t do anything in the village.  But I’m worried too.  And Colette… She’s going to be alright, right?  I couldn’t… the mana was so strange… I’d never…

Tylor:  Everything’s going to be alright kiddo.  And don’t expect miracles of yourself.  You aren’t an angel, and miracles are their purview, not us mortal folk.  Come on, less chat more walk, we’re falling behind.

Is that really necessary?

Kratos:  Just what do you think you’re doing?

Tylor:  Walking!

Genis: Being carried… (blushes)

Kratos:  Are those really necessary, the bells I could hear you coming a mile-

Tylor:  Busy walking! (T's box scrolls out of range taking G's with him)

Kratos: -away… (sigh)

_Status note: when Tylor is main party member has a 20% increase in random battles this explains why._


	4. untitled, will take sugestions

Unkindness 

chapter 3

The arguments went long and loud.  A sizable portion of the gathered hailing from PalmaCosta were all for setting their pet Desian on fire.  How the boy’d become animal, and pet, and flammable all in one pass Tylor wasn’t sure.  Local blood had pointed out that the treaty would be violated if they flambéed the boy, the logical contemplated that the lack of military might, and thus they’d cycled over rashness and tragedy but never deciding which to indulge.  Leaders of differing factions trotted out the same lines, and a dance an accidental one at that.

Marche of PalmaCosta’s pride (Warder’s branch, remnants of the Silvers centuries’ agone) would suggest bringing up some sort of force.  The offerings were miniscule considering the militant might of the nearest Ranch, still it was an offer.  Regardless, when the offer was mentioned Sir Collows of the Angelic Aspiration division would point out some outside flaw.  Cost was his more predominant issue, but time, season (though how _Spring_ was an issues was beyond Tylor, after all its when all the greenling Wanderers took to the roads) predominantly, was an issue.  Regardless Sir Collows found some flaw of some sort, therefore defusing the offering before anyone could consider it.  Then Iselia’s head priestess would chime in, Phadria might well have spared her throat, just written down her reminders of the treaty, the people of Iselia being helpless and done something sensible like take a nap.

Because, seriously, they weren’t doing anything here.

Third time about that doe-ce-doe he tossed his boomerang from hand to hand.  Fifth time about and he was aiming to cut the grass patches in odd angles.  Between the jangle of belled boots, the swish thwick of a blunted ‘rang trying to clip, and the meaty clap of wood striking hand at a catch and he’d been icily excused from the conference of his peers.

Little loss there.  Personally he’d been rather of been sent off round one of the stupid dance.  When his blurted, impious suggestion that maybe this wasn’t how things were supposed to go had been shot down.  Angrier than angry he’d plowed ahead with the thought.  If things were wrong than that meant that there was a girl-child Martel only knew where and scared and alone.

He’d been threatened, and brushed off, simultaneously.  Told silence was sacred, and the expected “It was the day of the oracle” and “heaven’s light meant all on this day were approved by the angels” and “It must be part of the regeneration”.  Now greenling he might have been per his rank, after all his tasseled scarf was green as spring grass, but he was no child to be appeased by children’s tales.  Regenerations were set in motion by the angels.  As in the Angels personally coming down from heaven to sanction it.

The only visitors Iseila’d sported were the influx of clergy, surly mercenaries, Desians, surly mercenaries who killed Desians, and the unlucky Desian kid who’d gotten clonked out by said surly mercenary.  Not a feather, sanctified or not, to the lot.

Suffice to say he wasn’t the happiest man in Sylvarant today.  Hands fiddled his vestments, not his mind, but rather Genis who’d taken a nap like a wise thing he was and was now a little better for the sleep.  Abnormally quiet, the boy loved to hum while being carried, the boy child said nothing, simply was clingy, and Tylor didn’t mind it on the long walk home.  Genis was as much a comfort to him as he was being to the boy… and there was some confusion in that last thought about the edges anyway.

Shaking his head, ignoring the “hey, that stings!” from up above, Tylor paced into a deserted seeming village. A quick nip on the western span brought him up to a dark wooden building with wide glass windows and the occasional peeping head.  A few hissed words got those heads back down, and considering everything it was wise.

Shifting Genis about Tylor kicked at the door, knocking being beyond him.

Finally, after some ruckus, and the testament of one little girl who would not stop peaking, “Scouting” she’d call it. Brave he’d half praise half scold the child at a later date. Regardless, her shrill-

“’Fessor, it’s Ty and he’s got Gennie!”

-got the door opened.  Oddest magical words those.  But he was in and the door was closed at their heels.  It was so close a call that he had to have it opened again because his robe got caught.

‘Fessor… more properly known as Professor Raine Sage, was a smart thing. Cautious but reasonable, which why they were in instead of out.  Tylor appreciated the sentiment, and how fast she was.  Orange overcoat flapping as she fetched, sprinting between hall and inner room of the class, to fetch two stools.  It took both of them to get Genis into it, for the boy was prone to fussing that he wasn’t hurt that bad.

Raine’s hiss of sympathetic pain when she saw the red raw palm sized patches that’d been her brother’s knees disputed that loud and clear.  One word, a whisper of endearment in a language he’d likely never get, and the gold light that was a blessing of a non-priestly sort. Healing and light, it never failed to amaze him how bright the light was, how it stole sight and at sights return the hurt was gone.

Save for some blood, Tylor ripped off his tasseled scarf and dabbed off the lot.

At labors end he looked up to find Raine looking down.  Trying a smile, he blinked and realized that she’d said something.  Had been saying something, actually, considering how her silvery brows were drawn together.

“Father?”  She pressed.

And… honestly, between his wits turning off and the realization that he was safe as it got, and that everyone he could make safe was as safe as it got… His eyes burned, the world blurred.

“I..”

Words failed him, joining wits in the quite unwelcome pilgrimage.  Neither had had the courtesy to leave a note.  Rather uncivilized of them…

“Father!”

Warm hands closed over his waist, between her grip and the nearest wall he was held up.  But it was a chancy thing since his legs were locked and shaking despite all his efforts to stop them.

“Raine… he’s bleeding!”

   And between twitch and tremor of tone Tylor knew that Genis was back with them, jarred from the horrible make believe of (what could have been, might have been, could be) that seized up the smartest minds and undermined the rasher breed of bravery.

“Spiky haired Desian got a knick, ‘m fine...”

Raine was barking orders, the scrape of a chair told him someone was listening, and then all of a sudden _he_ was listening.  Made to sit with gentle pressure, he sat and watched all bemused as that familiar face twisted into harsh lines that screamed “orders” and “serious” all without Raine’s voice rising in pitch.

“What were you thinking?  Of all the insensitive…”

“I used a jell, it’s fi-”

He all but asked to be smacked upside the head for that bit of insolence.  Still he figured he was warranted a meek “oooww…” afterwards.

“Of all the asinine, masculine…”

Slender hands pushed his robes open, and plucked at his under shirt.  There was a cut, not long, but deep.  Significantly more serious than a nick.  The cut smelled faintly of apples and the red about it was thicker than blood indicating the arcane jell was working as best it could.

Having carried Genis a good three miles in rough terrain had turned what should have been a clean bit of healing into a nasty scar in the making…

“Ty, _what_ am I going to do with you?”

Then there came warmth, and light, and after he was woozy and glad for the fact he was sitting after it’d passed.  Still despite how much his eyes wanted to slide shut he kept them open, fought for it, and for the smile as she set his robes back in place with shaking hands.

“See the kiddos home, hmm?  Parent’s will be worried sick.”

If her smiled was strained, it didn’t touch her tone, not a wit, and for that he was glad as he could be.

“Alright…”  Then raising her voice though she didn’t turn to him, she called, “Children, please gather your lunch sacks and your chalkboards and chalk sticks, use the eraser to clean the boards and set the desks as right as you can, we’ll all be walking home together today since even though the Desians are gone we don’t want to risk losing a single one of you.”

Her regard transformed statement into question, one that he nodded to.

Under the scrape and scuffle she whispered.

“Where’s Colette?”

“The priests said that she was starting her journey.”  Genis murmured. “But…”

“Things went a bit wrong, all abouts.”  Tylor chimed in.  Better he say it, that way at least if someone overheard and it got to the wrong ear it’d be him, not the boy, under the Judgment of the Church.  “Later…  I promise… everything will be told later, but _not_ now.”

Behind them kids were queuing up, all in various states of disarray, and gossiping like a flock of mad magpies, considering everything (mainly that kids were kids) it was understandable.  More than.

To that bit of comfort Tylor’s grin became a bit more genuine, and in exchange of that small mercy Rain relaxed a mite.

“Be back soon?”  Genis whimpered. “Please?”

“The fastest.”  Raine promised, bending down to plant a kiss on his forehead.  Lifting her head, she turned about, considering her students with such fierce regard that any Desian would think twice before snapping one of them up.   “Children, it’s time to go.”


	5. Gone...  "Ori’ga Syiss’kan"

Amused the Mercenary sipped from a cup of clay, his repast was wine that he really didn’t taste. Not that he cared. Sweet or sour it was a pseudo sustenance ad he indulged for his audience more than for anything else.

As for his smile, it was without teeth but caught his eye, real and true it was the closest to honesty he indulged in a long time. A laugh sans sound. And for realizing it, indulging it, it left him with… what had she called it… ah yes, warm fuzzy feelings.

He savored that sensation than anything as paltry as physical indulgence.

And all it’d taken to get to this moment of near bliss, a failed escape attempt and retrieval.

Watching outside, since it was more fascinating than the priestly shenanigans and power plays going on inside, he watched some people of nominally celestial aspiration have an articulation at the door of the shed. Finally keys were past from one man to the other and the one off duty went inside. The ruckus from the front of the house increased and as for him… well he sipped and savored the aches of a scuffle and was satisfied.

A tap of cane against floor had him turn, just enough to see the white robed woman’s approach. She was old, times mark had started to stoop her shoulders and there were lines about her eyes and mouth that might be from laughter meeting time most benignly. Still her eyes were blue, all but pirated from the sky.

Sylph themselves, must be jealous from so flawless a theft.

“Something amusing?” She queried, once they’d look at each other a while. Balance was a precarious thing for her, upheld by staff and leaning against some table propped against the wall, a glint of steel amongst some bundles of paly colored yarn alluded to some domesticity but he didn’t care beyond the fact that the needles were buried and not pointed at him.

Passing table she took up hold on white washed wall, trailing until she was all but besides him. The scent of sweat and wool and old made his nose wrinkle, but he took the path of politeness and did not comment.

Following his regard, which was now off of her and onto other things she grimaced, he spied the tranquil expression via reflection and glass.

“You’ve a dark humor young man.”

“It matches the attire.”

To that spot of lighter humor, though that was a stretch considering they were talking the color black, she huffed out something like a laugh.

“Have they,” the man tipped his head to behind and conversation that as a lay worshiper he should not have known was going on. Only those without working ears hadn’t heard the gist of it. “Made a decision about that?” Another head tip was made to encapsulate the idea of the shed and the thing behind its barred doors.

“Hardly, and not likely to make one until Sylvarants very essence withers away to the Void.”

“Wonderful.” Indulging a sigh he look on as she slid a shaking hand up frame and tried to pull away, one effort later and she was up and if she’d nearly fallen, well he didn’t care. He simply closed his eyes and contemplated cause and calm and this tranquilities death and how to twist it to his own ends.

Her coughing caused him to crack open his eyes, she’d fumbled a chair out from besides a table, its size and the permanent stain of food about one side (where a clumsy child had sat perhaps?) indicated it might have been where the family had partaken most of its meals.

For a long span she coughed and he watched, them compassion slowly manifested, his offer of water was accepted with something strained and what others might call a smile.

Her voiced “Yes please” was without sound, merely mouthed syllables that he was close enough to read.

Still he complied. Taking his time to memorize the small kitchen and find the cup then set cup to water jug he filled and she took it with gratitude.

“So Mr?”

“Aurion.”

A sip and smile was cast his way, he ignored both, considering nothing more serious than the light to his back and how it highlighted the lines of her face multiplying her wrinkles without deepening them. When it became obvious she would not speak until he folded to manners for a full introduction he growled.

“Kratos Ori-Kanion Aurion, Holiness.” The bow at greetings end was stiff, but she didn’t comment.

“Mr. Aurion, what brings you to Iselia this holy Day?”

“Work, the hope there of.” The mercenary shrugged, one hand sliding over the hilt of his swords, idly tapping, the other staying idle at his side. If that nod she cast his way was invitation to sit he’d not take it, nor would he stay the night, work clearly wasn’t in the cards so lingering would not be his. “I’m between clients. I favor escort jobs, preferably caravans, but pilgrimages are not beneath me.”

“The Regeneration journey is quite the escort.” Phadria noted, taking another sip. “It could take many years and Iselia is not a large town, merely a village, with what coin could we pay you when the Desians take over fifty percent of our profits per their treaty?”

To that rebuttal, so serene and quiet Kratos could think of nothing to say. So when Phadria continued it was to quiet, save for the ruckus that felt a world away.

“I would not, could not, trust the welfare of my granddaughter to one so callous. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to seek work elsewhere.”

“Your granddaughter, she must be very important to the Regeneration and the Chosen, but consider the repercussions. The world needs this journey, and it’s Chosen…”

“Is a child, who cannot make so adult a decision without the input of the adults in her life. As her Grandmother, co-guardian to her, I have some say in the child’s life and am thus able to exercise my authority in regards to the appointment of guardians for her journey. As a priestess my authority is doubled.”

Tossing down the last of his wine, Kratos set the cup down, releasing a bark of laughter. “You’d choose a delegation of priests, non-combatants…” He let the rest out as a wordless grumble, scorn saturated noise that eschewed coherence.

“Violence is not the path to Regeneration. So say the scriptures. _Violence begets violence, thus to not partake nor indulge, such will violence’s hold be washed away_.”

“And the Desians, kidnappers and torturers, the lot of them, you’d trust them just to turn away from this. From your Grandchild and her journey and its repercussions, just like that hmm?”

To his rebuttal she said nothing, simply regarded him with weary eyes and a tight smile.

“They will murder her, journey incomplete, and the world will suffer, die a little more.”

Still she drank and waited and seemed content to say nothing. Finally when the cup was drained she set it aside, keeping his cup company for a while. Wiping her hands on her robes sides she took edge of table and staff up and got to standing.

“Have you nothing to say, to none of this? To one who could protect her for just a little Gald.”

“I loved my daughter.” Struggle and silence that wasn’t. The chair was pushed in, no resolution was reached from the room beyond this one. But for this, now, well there was one writ in the sky of her eyes. “Though she was only mine by law and custom, I loved her as if she were my own. The angels sent us a godsend, so their priests said. A man to guard and protect her and thus assured she took her journey though heaven did not light the way. Thus we sacrifice out of own each generation because such is as the Angels decreed when time began.”

Hands just a few years shy of palsy but firmly in the hold of arthritis gripped the empty cup, turned it about and around while keeping it in place. Finally she quit cup and circling without walking, looked to him, and only at him.

“Do you know what happened to my daughter?”

“Her Regeneration failed, obviously; else heaven wouldn’t bear its light this day.”

“She _died_ , Mr Aurion. Heaven’s assurances and god sent to the contrary, she died.”

Eyes darkened, nearly black, mercenary considered one forbidden to lift arms even in self-defense. Where there was once apathy something like sympathy flickered about his face. To that emotion, or rather emotion’s ghost, she felt less shame at the tears that pricked her eyes.

“I am sorry.”

“As am I. If you’d like to perhaps stay the evenin-“

“No.”

“Then we’re done, I think. A pleasant journey to you, Goddess watch over you and your own.”

Ceremonial words, sans the motion to make casual statement into truly holy benediction, but considering matters of balance. Kratos was not offended and would not comment. He waited, until she was gone, or going towards gone and enough so that his leaving wouldn’t jostle her when uproar stilled her departure and his plans there-of.

Escape, so went the loudest amongst the uproar. Escape and flight and woe, because where there was one Desian there were others. And in this madness, this budding panic, Kratos acted. Dropping apathy to ally with mayor. He ordered, wielding experience like a sword, and was obeyed. Priests and those with scratching of bravery were inspired, took to heels and made progress. Some were to comb the woods, others to entreat the aid of some hermit in that woods, others scoured the town, the paths leading from it to Triet the dessert waste land the prisoner likely haled.

Satisfied, for it was _something_ , progress where there’d been bitter quibbling (and a decision had been made about that, a decapitation it’d be then , when Desian was caught again) Kratos felt something like a smile wishing to grace his lips. Unprofessional that, so he’d not. Because this was something and he’d been seen doing something and solving an issue and perhaps service could garner trust…

The mayor was pleased. Praising his decisions, as were the hierarchy of Palma Costa, promising to spread their praises about the mercenary guild should he ever wander their way…

But Phadria, the one he must appease, she’d been lost in the chaos. Pressing against a wall, using it for support, she stood and had slipped away.

Where, no one was sure, no one could guess.

XXX

There was a voice in his head.

The voice was the least of his issues.

Because he was following a trail. A trail laid down for him, by Devine, perhaps, though he was breaking a number of rules and the divine were a stickler for protocal.

But rules paled and became slender little shades when compared to other things.

Impact, a body, a boy. He’d scrambled out of the classroom sounds of violence making his heart beat a frantic rhythm against the bones of his chest. He’d left Genis with a word, a promise “I’ll be right back” and flown for the entrance. Robes slapping his ankles their edges flapping in failed flight, he stood in opened doorway moth opening. Refusing to close.

Because there’d been a boy. A boy in black and a man in black standing over him similarly attired save for some silly wing like cape about his shoulders. The man was standing over the crumpled form, the boy was shivering, and there’d been a sword. No red on edge or tip, though the child’s arm was bent in a bad way that spoke of a break or three. He’d moved to help, because what he’d seen couldn’t be, wasn’t right, so it _wasn’t_. And hopeful delusion had been stilled by a visual oddity. A convex where a flat plane should have been set him to turning, to spying the dent on the school wall and guessing fancy mathmaticier things like velocity and angel and… it didn’t take a genius to put it all together.

What wasn’t _was_ , he’d looked back mouth clicking shut, whole frame shaking with a rush of fury.

His indignant presence was enough to stop the beating. Though confusion wasn’t the best cause it’d stopped and that’s all that mattered. The man’d looked up from his contemplating of awful things, scraping back auburn hair to better expose eyes as dark as a Desian’s attire… And how he’d started at the white robed man’s fury.

Still he’d folded to Tylor’s divine right; he’d helped gently carry the boy-Desian to the shed without any foolery of hurting the child further.

His mouth ran as his mind blanked. About _what stupidity_ and _Goddess man, they said not to kill him_. And _was this all about running away, who wouldn’t, but beating him stupid would do them no favors with the point ears up the hill_.

Details swirled about his head, the stuff of nightmares sans dreaming. Cacked in red, were the innermost fractures, the point of impact. He’d wander there in a daze after seeing his Brothers take up what he’d been forced to abandoned. His fingers were stretched to indulge the most childish urge of curiosity. Thus he reached, scraping off that which wasn’t wholly dry and wasn’t paint and was awful bright and red...

Raine’d found him there, just staring. She’d come back, walked by, gotten her brother, and he hadn’t even noticed. He’d failed her more than once today he supposed.

Genis was held pressed against her, silver hair frazzled, blue eyes so wide, so scared.

Little wonder, he was scared too.

Still he knelt, and Genis’d come, and he’d held the boy a while. Minding the red about his fingers he’d held on as tight as he could, for just a little while.

He’d had no words for them, no words of comfort and guidance.

Only words for himself.

“I’m not staying.”

“We aren’t either. I’ve still got a student to find, I’d hate her to be late for dinner but that seems... unavoidable. Still Frank and Phadria shouldn’t have to worry, not after their little girl.”

To that bit of normalcy he nodded. She’d scoured forest and wolf dens for her most adventurous, as had he, neither consider the day done until all their charges were back home and safe. Then he’d spied the packs at her feet, and noticed a few of them were striped. He swallowed at the seeing, and though his eyes burned and sight blurred, his voice held up well enough.

“I’m sorry.”

Because she was part of this now, because she’d been seen helping him and…

“I suppose _I_ should be.” Came the unexpected reply. “Going through your things… I’ve... it’s been a long time since I traveled… I’m sure I made errors about what to take but…”

Holding walking staff close, hands paling as they held on tight, Raine looked to him, then to the wall. He understood, it wasn’t wholly Colette and the apology wasn’t quite for what she was talking about.

“Did you pack my boots?”

Genis shifted, brushed a pack with his foot, the following ring a ling was muffled by… whatever else was in the packs.

“That’s all I’ll ever need.” To his smiled approval Genis followed suit.   “That and a hiding place. Because I’m not _quite_ sure I got everything yet.” And while Genis wondered, Raine paled, _realizing_. “So I’m going to the most obvious obnoxious hiding place ever because they’d never look there…”

“Who?”

“My tail lad,” He ruffled silver locks, minding the wet about his hands. “And my tails tail is going to need some shaking…”

“Triet?” Raine queried.

Tylor nodded, then pulled the money pouch from the strap about his neck and passed it to her. After all he stil had his station, food wasn’t so hard for him to get. It wasn’t much but she dind’t protest. Simply took it with the understanding if she said no he’d of slung it abouther neck to make her take it.

As it was they were spare d the verbal scuffle by her practicality, so he slung his packs in place with practiced ease enjoying the jingle. Nothing poked or prodded him so he thanked Raine for that. Raine was helping Genis with his new gear at the time of Tylor’s discovery though, so she didn’t have much to say. So Tylor settled the lot and noted that the dust had had time to thicken and crust along the leather. A curse of sorts since he hadn’t cleaned the lot up after his last pilgrimage but if one ignored the smell it made the stripes pop.

Then they were done, Genis all but vibrating with excitement and wondering when Tylor’d catch up and all but humming because though this was something scary it was something new, and Raine’d told him about these places called ruins and would they see those and…

“Triet.” Tylor promised. “At the latest, five days. You younglings’ll run circles around me I’m sure.”

Raine, more understanding of the subtext, nodded.

Wait five days than move on without him.

Recalling his vocation, Tylor murmured a quick prayer over them both, holding them tight then letting go after a few sanctified words. More well wishes and askance of mercy and clear roads than anything formal. Still it’d hold.

They’d split paths then, Raine leading her little brother in the wooded ways about the village and him taking the open roads. It’d been simplicity itself to walk up and say he was taking over watch duty.

The key’d been passed up just like that and he’d worried at locks, never mind window and who might be watching. Chains pulled back, locks left a gape, and he had looked upon the body, still breathing but so horribly limp, of the child.

Sprawled on his belly, face swollen with budding bruises, arm still horridly fluid, the would-be Desian was out cold. The shed smelled of manure and more freshly of piss, he doubted all the dampness that glossed the boy’s uniform was blood and decided not to think about it. One deep breath of fresh later and he plunged in; pulling the flaccid form against him and managing something like straightness to the both of them when he pulled them up.

A whimper, a whine, but amongst the pained sounds came a word.

“lmet…”

“Vanity later kiddo.” Tylor grunted figuring ‘ _lmet_ for amulet or helmet. He’d spied the latter back in the shed but had left it, hands full so to speak. Figured the child had to take that as a sign to fight. More mumbles, whines, and the boy’s brown eyes cracked open, something so alive and scared stilled the priest who’d been Martel bent on getting them out of town back ways about.

Recalling other Desians’ spied from hiding placed when they had raided Palma Costa he thought he’d seen a few talking to air, or tipping their heads as if listening to things that he couldn’t… He put memories to dogged determination and guessed his hunch might be right.

“Helmet?”

The boy nodded, and Tylor got the boy propped up against the back of a building. A mere step behind were some stakes with some vined thing not growing alright if the brown about the stems meant anything. They were in a garden, Iselia was packed with them, and save the Mayor who’d set guards to his, they were open with sheds for tools set in each. Only Colette’s mother had had a large enough shed to shove someone into, the one that was providing shade and props to the boy was somewhat out of sight of Iselia’s lone dirt road. So long as Tylor didn’t not mess up the whoever owned this patch of dirt’s failing vegetable stake he wasn’t going to care about roundabout trespassing.

“How important is it?”

A gargle noise that sounded really bad was the priest’s answer. Not able to work with that the man scraped his hands through his red hair.

“Scale one to five, tap a finger or something to give me count, and five being I need to have gone already, do you need that helmet?”

Another gargle, a broken jaw obviously mixing with spit and blood and a compromised ability to swallow… He tried not to think of why and how that’d happened. Eyes widening as much as the swelling would permit the child pleaded with gaze, then with tears falling the boy lifted one shaking hand and slapped clumsily on earth six times.

“Alright. Just…” What _could_ he say? “I’ll be back.”

He hoped it was a promise he could keep.

A run, packs jingling at his back, ran there and back, an outcry when he was halfway between there and gone told him someone’d noticed the open door. Goods tucked under his arm he hadn’t stuck about. That didn’t mean he hadn’t it though. The voice on the floor, that’d graduated to a voice from under the crook of his arm considering how he carried the thing was ever repeating whatever. He was too busy running to worry about words.

But now he was back, and the kid was looking up with hope and all for a bit of metal under his arm. Kneeling before the kid because he’d have to try to talk and he’d have to be close enough to guess at listening, Tylor was startled when the kid reached up and swatted at his head.

“lell”

“Hell of a day.” Tylor grinned and was answering with something like a smile back. The blood and drool ruined it though. Another head smack got Tylor to lift the thing up like a shield and the complaint on his tongue died. Because he heard the voice then. And heard the words.

“Yashin, come in, this is home base, I need confirmation of life. Respond, repeat, respond..”

Then softer, a whisper no longer script, the man who was there but wasn’t spoke, a rasp bereft of hope.

“Come _on_ boy, you know the protocols… Pick up…”

For a moment, Tylor said nothing, simply stared, another head tap, harder, brought him back and drove the idea home.

“Alright, I’ll try it.”

And that is how Tylor Aru Vallen Sancrest had the dubious pleasure of hearing voices in his head. Another smack got him an earful of sand scraping over stone sound, and as he hissed curses at the brat who’d just hit him (because seriously, Desian Jr. needed to learn gratitude, you did not hit your saviors, it’d be like Chosen’s hitting angels, it just wasn’t right.…) while he was wearing the stupid thing the voices, that’d been chattering for this Yashin cut off.

Then they spoke, to him.

“Who the hell is this!”

Nice to know where the kid got it from.

“I…” He felt like a fool and looked like a loon talking to someone who wasn’t there and probably wasn’t real. But at this point, he’d no one and nothing left. “I _think_ I’m trying to save this... this uh Washing of yours…He was caught in Iselia. In a bad way, and he can’t walk.”

Well truthfully Tylor wasn’t sure he could carry the boy much further but that worked. Looking about, seeing no one but trusting nothing the priest dropped his voice to a hiss.

“And there’s priests looking for him, and this creepy guy in black with a sword, and the guardsman, and Martel _damn_ it I’m not a healer, I’m _not_ …”

“Hold on, sit still, don’t touch the helm, I’m… getting replaced by someone else, there’s going to be a screech and-”

And there was a screech, and the voice, the voice on the other was just… different. Deeper, perhaps, calmer, the last he’d heard before the switch had been babbling in panic but this… Even before the person talked he _knew_ it was someone else… the hum from before had died to an utter silence he’d only found in the most sacred of spaced. Save it was so so cold.

He could feel ice forming against his ears, prickling about his head like a halo.

Then _it_ spoke, and there was a crackle amongst the smooth tones, a soft hiss that spoke of the type of sky fire that heralded infernos wielded by the infernal.

“Where are you?”

“Iselia.”

“Where is he?”

“Like two feet away,” The boy had perked up, maybe hearing whoever this was, and damn hope like that shouldn’t be pinned on ghost voices or priests talking to them. That sorta stuff was for Martel or her Serph or something more than this… Licking his lips Tylor looked about, no one and nothing save some sort of ruckus up and away. Triet was likely going to be impossible to get to. He prayed Raine and Genis were gone, because people who’d do this to a kid, a human kid in Desian get up because the kid lacked points to his ears which meant he _wasn’t_. “He... he can’t talk. We gotta move, there’s people looking, it isn’t safe…”  Budding hysteria pitched his voice towards shrill. “We need help.”

The Voice softened, if only a little bit.

“Safety’s five miles, can you make it?”

The only thing that was five miles away… He looked up; to light that chased light for there were no shadows at the temple so long as that light burned.

“What happens if I say no?” Tylor whispered.

“Then another attack happens and in the confusion he and you disappear and Iselia’s razed to the ground.”

He hauled the boy up and when he couldn’t walk Tylor shifted and struggled and with some swearing was carrying the kid. Whatever his name was crying into his shoulder, starting to break under beatings and the pressures of the day and surly the voice in his head heard it if that hiss inside his ear meant anything.

“It’s going to be alright _Mer Ori_ , it’s going to be alright… _Syiss’kan ori’ga syiss’kan Mer Ori_ …”

Whatever comforting ramble Tylor meant to chime in with was gone…

Just…. Gone.

Revelation was supposed to come under the holy light of Cruxis, and picking his way so not to jar his passenger –never mind the burning such a travel was costing his insides and back- Tylor pressed on without seeking heavens light. In imperfect silence, because the wet rasp against his ear and the words coming from the supposedly demonic being in the back of his head it wasn't quiet he left… What the monster's offered, the Voice... it was more than he could say, any comment of his would be petty against this realization.

Angelic, the holy tongue. Simply tender, had fallen from a demon’s lips.

And the words, he felt a child again, leafing through the primer, seeking to link each inflection to meaning and wondering if what he had gotten right.

_Mer Ori._

My son.

_Syiss’kan._

Breathe.

 _Ori’ga Syiss’kan_ …

Keep breathing.


	6. What I get

Unkindness

Chapter 6

 

There was nothing, save light. Unchecked the aura of the angels had left walls the stone, a world beyond the doors, burnt down to nothing more than luminance and memory.

Even his steps, he could scarcely hear them though he knew they should echo, as they had before a mere day ago. The hum and the burning of heaven’s luminance muffled steps as surly as dew wet grass in the earliest hours, thus a silence was upheld. Sanctified.

But eerie.

The scree of steel toed feet being dragged besides him, by him, was similarly muffled He’d lost his strength to carry the boy, had felt something deep and inner tug and leave a widening spot of warmth on his belly and had settled for dragging these last few steps. Now, inside, past the entrance and about a corner that lead to nowhere specific, Tylor eased the child down and sat heavily by the boy’s head.

Still breathing, the boy was doing that, though it sounded awful and thick and wet and crackling all at once.

Broken ribs, broken in a bad way…

Puling off the Desian-child’s helmet, eyes screwed shut –because light like this burned and pushed back the dark behind his lids still he had to try- he basked in the radiance of his Goddess.

And wished with all his heart he was gone.

Still, wishes aside he fumbled slid helm on the boy like he’d been told and waited.

And burned in that waiting.

XXX

They came soundlessly then half elves slinking from widening shadows, they took the boy from him. Black clad with green vests about the shoulders. He passed the boy to them and when they made like they were going to use the tile floor of the chapel as a place of healing Tylor stood. Pulling a key from his pocket, and though this was sacrilege of a sort he pushed aside the tapestry of Martel in her merciful glory. A click and the door was unlocked, a push and it was open.

“In here, second door to the right, it’s open.”

His quarters always were.

They came to his call then, the child between the,. He lingered awhile, letting them do whatever in his rooms because it hardly mattered. What mattered was the blood. When his cassock was soaked he pulled off his socks, when those were too small (and saturated) he stuffed the lot in his pockets and looked about. His eyes fell an the alter, the white cloth upon it and with a prayer of forgiveness, bespeaking, whilst he acted upon it, he snapped up the cloth and used to wipe up the last of the blood.

While he worked he begged for mercy he was unsure he deserved.

Still he did not stop until the last was mopped up.

XXX

The priests quarters were little more than ambitious closets. He’d known, he lived there during the col months. The hall that connected them all (and segregated them from chapel) was long. Or rather it was short. He’d traveled it a number of times, and though he was sure he counted its pace (five by thirty, doubled, redoubled, beyond count) it seemed small. So small. Still he chased the ringing of his last foot falls upon its length. Again and again and again.

They’d of chased him out of his own quarters. Well it wasn’t much of one, but still… Upon finding him rattled and powerless they ordered him out. Dismissing his offerings of bandages and ligaments meant more for scraped knees than actual wounds.

The masks didn’t hide how useless they thought him , but he hadn’t cared, made his offer anyway.

And now, once t was denied, he walked. Bells his only companion on this round about road. A cheery counterpart to thoughts that weren’t.

_What is mercy? Freely given. What is justice? The sword that cannot cut._

_So spoke the angels, decry violence and spite, and we shall preserve you. Let cruelty crumble under the press of out light, for out light is blessed and out children who so embrace it shall not feel the red fallacy of blood splashed across their hands_

Oath and scripture rang about in his head. And h wondered and rubbed itchy fingers. There was red their (flaking) and he slowed to pick at the stuff crusted under his fingers as best he could. Without a knife it was hard and there were shadows of blood about the inner recesses of his digits. Still he tried, and walked and worried and wondered. Tylor however did not dare.

Dared not enter his quarters, to use the water pump within to fully wash. Or to change clothes that were once blood soaked, now becoming sweat and blood stained. There was a heavy hot stripe across his shoulders, a trail down his left leg, surely some splattered on his boots. He felt disgusting and disgusted, but vanity could wait. The boy could not.

So he waited.

And in his circuits of his waiting he pulled red fabric, sanctified and simple and with cringing fingers plucked and pulled and let them fall in the darker spans.

When he continued his walks he pointedly did not look where they had fallen.

XX

When the door finally opened he only had two guests. Boy and mysterious person number one were within. Helmeted peoples on two and three were long gone. Ya-whatever-his-name-was clonked out on Tylor’s bed, and if it weren’t for the fact that the boy’s blanket were covered in glowy scribble circles and the circles were moving Tylor’s room would have been normal.

As it was, it wasn’t normal, nor was he let in. His peek over the woman’s shoulder was all he got, because she was moving forward and he moved back out of curtesy. When he spoted the black spiced atrocity strapped to her hip he decided to double his courtesy and she took advantage of his weary manners to close the door behind her.

“How’s kiddo?”

The woman turned her steel helmet from door to him. Like all Desian headwear it was shiny and one piece, a cap of sorts save metal that ended in a vaguely birdish beak that followed path of the nose and sept up and broadened until one couldn’t see the eyes. But they could see you, through slits and straining and part elvish eyes that made the dark little trouble. So he guessed where her eyes were and locked gazes there because looking down was surely to get him acquainted with the pointy side of her mace.

“He’s been better.”   Came the curt response, her voice was curious. Marked by neither Izoolidian drawl or Trietian harshness. She moved to step forward and Tylor didn’t. She’d walk through him first, if nothing else he was getting his keys back.

“Get out of the way inferior being.”

“Where are your friends?”

“Gone.”

 _Like you should be_.

Some things just didn’t need to be said.

Deciding any question starting with who, what went, where, and why were likely not going to be answered Tylor rocked from toe to heel. She shot his belled booted feet a look but said nothing. Really then the scorn on her face really said lots.

“Can you take him with you? Because he’s not safe, not here.”

“The spells keeping him alive are tied to where he is.”

A step, they were nearly touching, demon and priesting. Still Tylor stood, dug his heels in and met the flicks of blue he spied in the helmet’s shadows.

“He’s one of yours.” Tylor let her hear the anger, the protest.

“Which is why he isn’t dead. I assure you, my subordinates wanted nothing more than to spirit him to the ranch, throw him in with the prisoners. Still we know his kind, his Master, we’d of been massacred. He’d of killed man woman and child to revenge His own. So we healed His Spawn and we’re done.”

“You have to leave.”

“I need to report.” He jaw was clenched a muscle twitched, making a small scar on her cheek twitch just so. “Forcystus will not extend sanctuary to a human, no matter his alliance.”

“So you’ll let a kid Desian die?” Silence, well let her be silent then to accusations, fine. She was a Desian after all, he’d expect some cruelty. Wordlessly, by expression and stance and in his soul, he _dared_ her to try to be silent to _this_. “What do I do?”

“Whatever you want.” She shoved him and was walking by, a few steps really and she’d be gone.

“Not for me, for him!”

He yelled it, never mind it was only a few steps and the walls seemed close and danger closer. He yelled it because he hadn’t been able to before. To yell his protests at all those people who’d left. Left Colette and left the world and forced others to leave it. He’d seen battles and he had to be calm, to be tranqual and quiet and peaceful because scripture and oaths said so.

He was supposed to accept that he should have left some kid to be beaten to death, to let one of his flock to wilds and Desians of.. well not this Forcy girl person, but someone else. Some Ranch else. Where people went in and never went out and the screams were loud and the silences after were louder still.

Well he wasn’t, and wasn’t accepting, not any of it.

She looked at him, not through him, not over, but _at_ him. The warmth of her previous touch (where she’d shoved him back and away) was on his shoulder, the scent of her breathe an acidic memory. She smelled like a woman, _was_ a woman.

And she’d bled, would bleed, like the boy had, if fate let her just be cut.

That wasn’t his fate though, the sword was denied him, by oath and promises he meant when he said them, and that was more binding than any scripture ridden recitation at an elder’s feet.

“What can I do for him?”

It hung between them, silence laced with shock, like a repentant man’s fingers clasping a spiritual charm. The bind was so tight one could not divide flesh from symbol from blood. As it should be.

Then: breathlessly. “You’re human.”

To that obvious he considered, than consideration made he introduced himself. To counter the whole “Human” thing, because, while yes, he was, he had a name. It wouldn’t hurt her to hear it, might help. She did not return the curtesy though, simply stared and stared until his eyes hurt in sympathy.

“I’d like my key back, so I can get into my rooms. Just because you aren’t staying doesn’t mean I’m not”

She tossed it and he caught, the throw wasn’t even a hard one.

And while he fussed with lock (his hands shook, hence the fussing) she spoke.

“What’s in it for you, human?”

Well it was better than Inferior Being, still not his name though, a turn and door was open. Tylor stared at impossibility laid on the mundane and forgot to breathe for a little.

Her voice recalled him to breathing, though she wasn’t near or particularly loud and the tone might have been gentle, pitying.

“You can’t do anything you know.”

“You know that dream,” Tylor murmured, to room more than her, looking at light not from heaven, but hands that weren’t moral. Mortal, yes, bleeding and warmth and living, he knew of that now, from her and from the boy both. That light, held back death, still the child on his sheets did not look well, he looked sick and tired even as he slept. “-the one where you didn’t do anything but wish you had? What I get, my Daughter, is to know that when I open my eyes I realize I _did_.”

Then she was going, and him, well all it took was the closing of a door and he was gone.


End file.
